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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057770">impression, sunrise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/panini1995/pseuds/panini1995'>panini1995</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>freedomscapes [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, F/M, a little art talk here and there! EXCITING RIGHT!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:54:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/panini1995/pseuds/panini1995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If the two of you share a common love language then it must be something an outsider would have to try and catch with very keen eyes and sharp ears; in the little, almost nonverbal ways you both show complete trust, as well as the observant gazes that just <em>know</em>. It’s in the small things, like the way he lets you prepare his coffee in the morning just the way he wants it, or the way he lets you curl your pinky around his in the backseat of the cab.</p><p>—</p><p>You try to capture light.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sakusa Kiyoomi &amp; Original Character(s), Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>freedomscapes [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>impression, sunrise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is more a sequel to freedomscapes than anything, really, but it works as a standalone, too; as well as partially induced by my 3pm caffeine energy and the urge to write something about sakusa's eyes being so dark they're like vantablack all they do is absorb some 99 point something percent of light. (spoiler: i wasn't able to do that here hahaha but i've written a line or two that's close.)</p><p>there's liiiike one line (or two) that you might appreciate more though if you've read the first part of this series, but it's still fine even if you haven't. just thought to include it because i find it cute.</p><p>either way, i hope you enjoy this short one-shot. :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kiyoomi doesn’t enjoy staying any longer than he should in the court after each game but he does it anyway for the fans, for the press, and most importantly, for Meian Shugo, who makes sure to beat him to the exit leading to their dugout every single time with his arms folded and his feet apart as he levels him with a glare that he usually only reserves for the Adlers’ Fukuro Hirugami across the net—his eyes making it very clear that Kiyoomi is definitely not escaping this time.</p><p>From the sidelines, you watch as he listens to a college-age fan holding a package with one hand and the other gesticulating with every word; the girl’s admiration very apparent in the way her face just glows and her ears go bright red, and you fondly try to trace where the pink ends and where the orange begins, as your eyes automatically do when they see gradient. His mouth is set in that practiced, civil smile that you’d suggested he better add to his (not very expansive) catalog of facial expressions and you almost chuckle because it still doesn’t resemble a smile, not really; it’s more a quiet, non-aggressive expression that is certainly a far cry though from the side sneer he throws Miya Atsumu’s way when the setter briefly passes by in front of him—the latter sticking his tongue out in response. You think maybe it’s enough. The young woman doesn’t seem to notice this minor betrayal of facade, even though her eyes are glued to Kiyoomi’s face as he signs a page on her notebook and then the back of a jersey with his name on it. Is she looking at his moles, you idly wonder; do people stare for a second or two longer at his face once they see the smaller ones they only get to see up close? He takes the gift that he hands her and bows politely, before moving on to the next person.</p><p>When he returns to you several minutes later, there is more than a handful of packages along with some handwritten notes and envelopes in his arms accompanying the exhausted look on his face. You always wait at one of the first rows of bleachers for this brief, post-game ritual to be over; always within his sight, not in the car even when he’s told you once that it’s totally fine if you went ahead and away from the suffocating crowd. Maybe it is fine—of course, it is—but he never says it again. Kiyoomi knows what he wants and means what he says, but also what he doesn’t say. So you always stay.</p><p>By the time he gets to you, he’s already maneuvered the packages to fit in one arm so when you reach out to help him with them, he catches your outstretched hand with his, instead. You open your mouth to protest but you see the dimples in his smile and you stop. Because, sure, Kiyoomi’s catalog of facial expressions isn’t something that you might call expansive, but it is nuanced, and the tiny wrinkle at the side of his eyes whenever he catches you like this is also something only <em>you</em> get to see up close; like that subtle shade of purple in the tail-end of white when you try to capture the color of light.</p><p>You only squeeze his hand twice in response, like some form of Morse that only the both of you are privy to; which, in a way, it is.</p><p>(“If it’s food, I wanna have some.”</p><p>A scoff. “If it’s food, it’s all yours.”)</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>If the two of you share a common love language then it must be something an outsider would have to try and catch with very keen eyes and sharp ears; in the little, almost nonverbal ways you both show complete trust, as well as the observant gazes—from afar, from up close, through the rearview mirror—that just <em>know</em>. It’s in the small things, like the way he lets you prepare his coffee in the morning just the way he wants it, or the way he always begrudgingly agrees to be the test subject for your food experiments. (Kiyoomi, whose greatest sin was declining a handmade onigiri prepared by Miya Osamu himself the very first time he was offered one.) Perhaps the real, most defining asset of this language is the way it twists and molds common verbal and physical forms of affection into things the both of you can call your own, something that can fit in his small, quiet corner of the room where he stands with his arms folded and his hands kept hidden from any sort of physical contact. Maybe you enjoy the peace and the unexpected warmth around his quiet campfire.</p><p>Maybe he’s aware of this, too, just like how he knows that you know that when gets quiet and touchy on some days it’s never without reason—sometimes valid, at times irrational, but does it really matter?—and though he doesn’t speak a word the entire afternoon, he lets you curl your pinky around his in the backseat of the cab. He knows about it, too, during those rare nights that he spends away in a different city, and he sends you a photo of a random thing or two—at midnight when he knows you’re still up—like a pack of store-bought vanilla-scented soap, for instance. <em>It reminded me of you,</em> his accompanying text would say, and you wouldn’t know whether to laugh at his dry humor or cry from homesickness so you’d just hold your phone to your chest, thinking of the times when you weren’t far apart.</p><p>Even then, Kiyoomi knows; he knows that he never has to spell the exact words out to let you know that he misses you.</p><p>It’s in the words that are said and also left unsaid. It is there when he remembers that not all whites are the same and he’d take more time and effort than necessary to pick the exact shades that you need in the art store he happens to be by. It is there when you pick him up from practice one Wednesday night, after a long day of fighting off creative block in the studio, and he’s at the passenger seat with the prolonged sidelong glances that you never notice; not those, nor his frequent <em>Okay?,</em> or how quiet the inside of the car has become, and when he reaches out to enclose your hand that was wrapped tightly around the steering wheel—so tight you see lead instead of whitewash—causing you to visibly jump in surprise, he doesn’t have to say much else. Just: “Pull over. Let me drive for a while,” with steady eyes that are as hard as they are soft; as unwavering as they are pliant. And he only waits for you to bring up what was bothering you, maybe not then, in the car, nor in the quiet of your bedroom at night, even; maybe in a few days once your head is finally clear, or in a few months once the ordeal has passed. Whichever way, you always tell him, make him aware of all these little storms. And you won’t have to describe these moments in great detail to help him remember because he never forgets.</p><p>It’s at the end of this same week that, instead of going off to train, he stays at home with you and decides to ask: “Well, what do you want to do?”</p><p><em>Work</em> should be your natural response, but it dies out in your throat just as he sits right across from you with eyes that <em>dare</em> you to say anything other than lounge around the house away from anything that remotely reminds you of work and just do absolutely nothing on such a nice day. You ease the crease that has formed between your eyes.</p><p>“I think we can just watch movies all afternoon. Just you and me.” And so you do.</p><p>You let the quiet thumping of drums in the opening sequence of <em>Seven Samurai</em> fill your ears and the entire room. He let you pick a movie that you’d started watching only about a dozen times in the past but which you always end up sleeping through around halfway. Kiyoomi refuses to spoil you the rest. And so you settle yourselves on opposite ends of the couch, your legs folded under your chin, as you let your eyes drown in the black and white of Akira Kurosawa.</p><p>You wake up several hours later with your head on his lap instead of the arm rest that you must’ve awkwardly molded your upper body against. The room has gone slightly dimmer than you remember and now you see colors in the screen. <em>Dreams;</em> your favorite among all of Akira Kurosawa’s films, you've told him once, because you like to dream in color, too. When you shift your head to look up at his face, you feel his hand cup around your forehead, a soft pat and a thumb lightly brushing the bridge of your nose as if to assure you that it’s fine; that you can attempt to watch <em>Seven Samurai</em> many more times in the future and you can keep sleeping through each try but he will always be right there, <em>judging you from the other end of the couch maybe,</em> but right there, with you, just the same.</p><p>“Sleep,” he says with his eyes never leaving the screen, his voice low and steady and, frankly, the only sound right now that holds weight in your mind. You let your body sag against this weight. “I’ll carry you to bed.”</p><p>And so you do. And he lets you curl yourself into a cocoon, burying your face even deeper into his stomach; his hands surprisingly gentle and cool against your hair.</p><p>(You think of that time he’s verbally expressed how lucky he is to have you—you with the knowing smiles and ever dauntless patience—with a firm hand at the back of your neck and the feel of a smile against your forehead. You let him hold you this way for as long as he wants, never looking up, not even when you say that you’re just as lucky too, if not more so.)</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In essence, there really hasn’t been any big changes in the dynamics of your relationship (and friendship) ever since the two of you got together. Kiyoomi has always had his quiet ways and, even back in uni, it is through his actions that he shows his care—or at least his version of it. These are things and hidden expressions that you only started appreciating more in a different light once you’ve finally admitted your feelings, such as the way he’d sit or stand closer than he did with anyone else in lieu of the blushing or the swooning; or how he’d simply hung around, sometimes asking you one of his questions to initiate conversation.</p><p>A lot of things aren’t necessarily new, you realize, just the way you view these things now. You think of the decisiveness with which he used to say <em>‘I’ll walk you home’</em> back in college, in the rare nights that he had to spend away from the dorm across from yours. And then you think of Kiyoomi in the driver’s seat, several years since, as he reaches for your arm before you can get out of the car, a look of displeasure on his face, telling you to take his jacket, please; it’s cold outside. </p><p>You think about all this in the quiet of the morning, as your eyes travel from the thin sliver of light that peeks through the gap in the curtains, to your entwined hands by the side of your head. You are both lying on your side so your right hands are holding, and you wonder at which point in the night he’s decided to hold you this way. Most mornings, you’d wake up on his side of the bed with his face buried at the back of your neck, his arm coiled around your waist. Some days, you’d wake up facing him, your noses almost touching, and you try to recall if there was anything in your expressions, some minuscule change in your actions the past night that perhaps made him think that you’d rather his face be the first thing you see when you open your eyes in the morning.</p><p>You want to capture this moment in time and carry it in your pocket forever; Kiyoomi, up close—with his hair framing his face and the halation-forming light from behind, but you know even that won’t be enough. And you have no desire whatsoever to get out of this space where you belong, not yet. So you carefully shift your right hand out of his grasp, instead, replacing it with your left, as you start to trail the spots of light against whitewash skin with your fingers: the curves of the mouth and the ball of his eyelids; the lines that make up his face—his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the touch of curls against his cheek. He opens his eyes without warning, and before you can react, your right hand is once again enclosed in his.</p><p>“What are you doing?” He trails one sleepy gaze from the tip of your fingers to your face, and you cherish the way his eyes are so black they absorb and absorb and you’re on their receiving end. You respond with an equally lazy grin.</p><p>“Tying to capture light.”</p><p>You see the gradual confusion in his face through the lines forming on his forehead and the narrowing, sleepy eyes, but the sides of his lips curl, nonetheless, like you do this every single morning, and you think maybe he’d even be shaking his head a small fraction if he weren’t lying down. The response is familiar, the banters have always been the same, but the way your heart lurches <em>every single time</em> still feels awfully new, and you can’t help the light giggle that escapes your lips, like you’re both eighteen once again and you silently savor the way his name rolls off your tongue when he tells you, <em>‘Just Kiyoomi.’</em></p><p>And so maybe there are no real changes, indeed, although things aren’t exactly the same. There is power in giving life to things through words, after all, and although you’d admit that this language that you both speak is composed of unsaid ones, you both indulge in the sound of spoken words, once in a while. And that has made all the difference.</p><p>Because, see, now he can bring your hand to his lips to trail soft kisses from your wrist to the tips of your fingers, murmuring <em>‘Hmm, I love you’</em> against your knuckles in lieu of a greeting, like they’re the most sensible words to say first thing in the morning. He doesn’t say anything else, nor does he do much else, except to keep your eyes locked in his as his index finger lightly brushes the hollow of your palm, sending that light shiver of electricity up your spine that is all too familiar and also so, so very new. You bury your face on the side against your pillow to hide the blooming red across your cheeks and you almost miss the lazy grin on his mouth against the back of your hand.</p><p>Perhaps, you both understand that words won’t always measure up, that there will always be many more unsaid things that you’ll only hold in your cupped hands; that can only fit in the spaces between his fingers that only you get to fill; in the semi-darkness of the room, amidst sacred whispers of your names and quiet gasps of devotion. But maybe that’s okay; you can both appreciate the effort, nonetheless. It’s the time you spent on your rose, after all—as the saying goes—that makes it so special.</p>
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